Parallel Journey
by InkVirus
Summary: Voldemort succeeded in acquiring the Philosopher's Stone leaving Lily's sacrifice unaffected by his revival. In a last ditch effort to escape his fate Voldemort resorts to an esoteric ritual that rends Harry from the Universe. He awakens to an entirely different conflict with enemies turned ally, friends returned from the dead, and a pantheon of new players.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

The man appeared with a loud crack and a swirl of displaced snow that fluttered around him violently for a few seconds before finally falling back to the ground. The freezing wind immediately cut through his layers of robes and stung his skin, but he bore it calmly with characteristic stubbornness. He started forward, each step a struggle against the thick snow and driving winds. As he progressed forward a looming structure slowly slid out of the gloom, its sharp steeple cutting up into the snowy clouds. A thin wooden wand slipped out of his coat pocket into his hand and he twirled it unconsciously in the same pattern he had a thousand times before. The small circles of the wand tip were the only visible signs of nervousness, a ritual developed from years of battle.

The warm glow of light shining from the windows slowly filtered through the snowy wind and the sight of the lonely monastery revealed itself. The orange glow crept out from the ornate window panes along the face of the monastery, bathing the entrance in a welcoming aura that he knew was deceiving. He would find no hospitality here tonight.

The entrance was barred by a large wooden door hanging slightly crooked in its frame. As he approached, a hand that shone oddly in the flickering light stretched out from beneath the thick robes and brushed along the door where the wood was slightly blackened in a starburst pattern. He gave it a slight push and the door creaked forward on cracked hinges, bathing him in a wave of warmth. He stepped inside quickly and shut the door after him, sighing as the chill seeped out of his body. The thick coat wrapped over his robes was dropped to the ground in the small puddle forming around his feet on the stone tiles. He surveyed the hall with a cautious gaze as he slowly massaged the blood back into his hands. The hall was empty besides him with no sign of any occupants besides the candles burning merrily along the walls and the lack of dust adorning the ground. As he gathered his wits about him the door on the far side of the hall slid open and a man in the somber robes of priesthood slowly entered.

He was middle aged and balding, possessing the lean body and demure posture of the monastics. He approached with a friendly smile and held out his hands in greeting.

"Hello my friend, I welcome you to this holy place. May I know the reason for your visit?" He continued forward as he spoke, beatific smile fixed firmly on his face.

The visitor straightened his posture and turned to the priest with a grimace. "Ah yes, I'm looking for an old friend of mine. I heard he was holed up out here and I traveled very far to pay him a visit."

"An old friend?"

"Yes, goes by the name Tom? Rather tall fellow, pale, overly serious with a flair for the melodramatic? Ring any bells?" The priest's face went slack for a second before lighting back up in a smile.

"Of course, of course, just follow me into the antechamber." The priest muttered as he reached for the man's arm. His hands tightened around the man's wrist and pulled him in the direction from which he entered. The man rotated his body sharply to the side as a silver knife cut through the air where his heart used to be. The priest's manic smile dimmed slightly as he rebalanced himself. "Please sir, don't be difficult." A blast of red light caught him in the face in response, violently jerking him backwards and slamming him into the ground.

The man cautiously approached him, wand outstretched, and slowly prodded his body with a muttered incantation. The priest's body lay still and offered no resistance. He gave a nod of satisfaction and turned his attention back to the door at the end of the hall. The priest had left it slightly ajar and the small gap flickered in an eerie green light from the room beyond.

The room was a gruesome sight, one of the sort he was depressingly familiar with. The floor slats were hidden beneath the mound of black robed bodies, sprawled unceremoniously on top of each other. A wave of decaying stench rushed into his nostrils, a sickly sweet smell that made his stomach churn unpleasantly. A glowing skull floated menacingly above the room illuminating the waxen faces of the corpses. As he stepped into the room a gaunt hand grasped at the hem of his robes, nearly unbalancing him. Bloodless pallid skin stretched tight over bone leered up at from the ground as one of the cadavers tried to pull him down to the ground. He quickly jabbed his wand into the corpses gaping mouth and fired a blasting spell, showering the ground in the chunks of brain matter. The commotion seemed to awaken the other bodies in the room as they struggled to their feet in eerie synchronization.

The man unleashed a flurry of spells into their midst sending several smashing to the ground. The fallen were trampled underfoot as their brethren surged forward. He backed up into the doorway unleashing a silent _bombarda_ at the ground in front of the tide of bodies. The wooden floor exploded in a shower of splintered planks sending the front runners flying back. The next inferi to cross the boundary of the splintered floor received a cutter to the neck, severing the head completely in a bloody spray. With another wave of his wand he summoned a flock of small birds that swarmed towards the inferi, pecking and scratching at the exposed skin. The inferi continued stumbling forward indifferent towards the avian creatures sinking their talons into their decaying bodies. The small creatures suddenly burst and dowsed their targets in roiling flames, quickly catching on the desiccated skin and igniting. The room was filled with the acrid smell of burning flesh as the corpses writhed violently in the flames. He fired a powerful banisher into their midst flinging them back against the far wall where they lay still once more in smoldering heaps.

He stalked through the scorched doorway into the main hall of the monastery and was greeted by a familiar figure. He let the hood of his robe fall back to his shoulders revealing a startling young face framed by messy black hair.

"Hello Tom." The pale figure responded with a streak of green light that flashed harmlessly against the man's chest. He sighed as the tendrils of power swirled futilely against him for a second before dissipating harmlessly. "Why do you keep trying Tom, really. If it didn't work the first ten times…"

He trailed off as he quickly fired of a spell that hit Tom squarely in the chest. His body was thrown back into a pew as his wand flew through the air and into the man's outstretched hand. His exuberance was quickly doused by the crumbling disintegration of the yew wand in his hand.

"Oh Harry, you didn't really think it would be so easy did you?" a sibilant hiss called from behind him. Harry wheeled around to see the man known as Lord Voldemort standing in the entrance of the hall. An uncharacteristic gleeful smirk twisted his cruel features. He looked back to the fake Voldemort and saw a stream of clay sludge slowly slip off the pew and coil on the ground. Voldemort took a step inside the hall and stilled, his wand glowing a malicious red. "You've been a terrible thorn in my side your whole life, boy, and for a while I almost despaired that I could never be rid of you. Especially after what happened when I sent dear Bella back to England. That was not something Dumbledore would approve of I think."

Harry sneered back at him "Bellatrix deserved a thousand times worse. She wouldn't receive mercy from any British wizard, not even Dumbledore. Not after what she did."

Voldemort gave a croaking laugh as he raised his wand. "Oh, I don't doubt that your little friends would have loved to get their hands on her. The rest of Britain however? You overestimate them."

Harry tried to bring his wand to bear but his arm rebelled against his wishes, swinging sluggishly in the direction of Voldemort. He stared in horror as his hand moved slower and slower before locking in place before him. He tried to stumble backwards but his legs proved just as unresponsive, leaving him trapped in place. Harry started thrashing in panic, desperate to free himself, but his body only responded by stiffening further.

"After so long I've finally done it. But of course, that is only inevitable, no wizard can oppose me forever. Even one of your remarkable … persistence. Our little battle is at its conclusion I'm afraid," Voldemort took another step into the room, face still twisted into a gruesome smile. "It will be quite painful I promise, a little revenge for all the distress you've caused me."

"H–how?" Harry squeezed out through gritted teeth.

"Your protections are still in place of course, as much as it pains me to admit, my curses remain just as ineffectual as ever. Against your own magic however—why, you're defenseless. I'm almost ashamed I didn't think of it before." Voldemort gave a flick of his wand and Harry's head twisted sharply in place. His chin ground against his shoulder and the tendons straining along his neck flared in agony. Harry gazed in horror at the pile of clay that had formerly resembled his enemy. It rose and twisted in the air as if being shaped by the invisible hands of a giant, its slightly roiling texture spilling down on itself before surging back up into the pulsing mass. It was already half-formed into a humanoid shape, and the clay continued swirling as its features become increasingly defined. Harry stared in mounting horror as the shape slowly revealed itself. Messy black hair sprouted out from the top of the clay figure and curled around a familiar green-eyed face. Single tendrils of clay slowly extended from around its eyes and hardened into shining metal as a lightning bolt pattern carved itself onto the homunculus's forehead.

"It is a horrific feeling, is it not? To be trapped by one's own magic. Your disarming charm activated the curse on the golem you see, leaving you completely helpless." Voldemort leered at him as he drew a serrated dagger from his robes. He glided forward towards Harry and slid the knife under his chin, careful to avoid skin contact. His face leaned forward, mere inches away.

"How utterly satisfying it would be to slit your throat right now, like a filthy muggle, and watch as you drown in your own blood at my feet. Oh, how sweet that would taste," Voldemort hissed as his red eyes pulsed with madness. "There are very few sights left in the world that would give me greater joy."

Harry screamed in his throat, a warbling screech that couldn't escape his body as Voldemort put his entire weight behind the dagger and shoved it into his throat. He closed his eyes and relaxed into the darkness, waiting expectantly for the feeling of his life draining out through his ravaged throat. When nothing happened, he opened his eyes to see Voldemort glaring in disgust at the melted dagger in his hand. Voldemort fixed his glare back on Harry, but the light of insanity had already fled leaving them a dull burgundy.

"I despise your mudblood mother more every day," he spat. "Sometimes I think I hate her even more than you," He stepped back and pulled a familiar blood-red stone from his pockets. "Such direct methods cannot overcome the protections she laid upon you. No enchantment is perfect however and I'm rather proud of the loophole I've found. If only the cost wasn't so high—but I suppose it is rather fitting to end our struggle with such a sacrifice. To give up the means of my revival is a harsh blow, but nothing that cannot be overcome. Lord Voldemort will rise once more and lay waste to the pathetic inhabitants of the British Isles. There will be no Harry Potter there to stop him this time I'm afraid, in fact there won't be a Harry Potter anywhere!" He brought down his wand with a sharp crack onto the Philosopher's stone. The stone was enveloped in a ruby red flash as it shattered into thousands of tiny shards.

Voldemort swished his wand through the air so fast the air screamed in its passing as he carved complex patterns into the air. The shards of the stone lifted into the air and swirled around him, caught in a nonexistent current, as he layered enchantment after enchantment on them. Harry could only stare in horror as the swirling cloud swelled around Voldemort, pulsing in time with the rapid incantations spilling from his pale lips. The room was slowly suffused in a blinding red glow as the cloud grew in luminescence till it shone in the room like a dying sun. Voldemort's face was thrown into sharp relief by the glowing shards, his already inhuman features twisted into something even monstrous.

"Tell me Harry," Voldemort cackled as he finished his manic orchestration. "Do you know what happens when something is Vanished?"

The radiant storm stopped its cavorting dance around Voldemort and streamed forward towards Harry's frozen figure. The cascading shards washed over his body, burning deep into his skin wherever they touched. Another agonized scream ripped its way out through his clenched jaw as he felt his body slowly being burned alive. He writhed in pain as the shards slowly dug through his clothes and buried themselves into his chest. The nerves along each appendage screamed in one last anthem of trauma before they shut off completely. His screams slowly quieted as the pain receded and he glared at his enemy through teary eyes as entombment of his body in molten rock was finishing.

"Goodbye Harry Potter. May you find no haven beyond this world." With one last wave of pain and a flash of light Harry was thrown out of existence.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Harry awoke to the stinging sensation of heat fleeing his cheeks into the cold ground beneath him. He shifted his head and hissed as the wet sludge slipped down his collar and brushed his burned skin. He lost track of how long he lay there, motionless beneath the fluttering snow, focusing on taking one rasping breath after another.

His quiet solitude was broken by a pair of loud cracks and the crunch of boots on snow.

"This our man?" A rough voice called out from nearby.

"You see anything else 'round here?" A second voice responded.

"Aye, suppose so," The first man muttered petulantly. Harry felt a pair of hands grab his shoulders and flip him over onto his back. He tried to get a look at the faceless voices, but his eyes stung in the bright light, and his face scrunched unconsciously.

"Merlin's fucking balls." The first man said as he got a clear look at Harry.

"We, uh, _shit_ we gotta get him out of here." The second man said, his voice sounding slightly pinched.

Harry started as he felt a hand grab his arm and jerked back out of reach. He tried to backpedal away from the voices, but he couldn't find any purchase, slipping and falling backwards through the icy slush.

"Hey—calm down kid," The voice shouted as Harry heard him crunching after him. "Fuck ah, screw this—Stupefy!" Harry threw himself to the side as a hazy red bolt screamed by his head and struck the ground behind him, throwing up a cloud of spinning ice crystals.

Harry glared at the hazy figures approaching him and desperately fumbled in his robes as he crawled through the snow. Another light flashed overhead as he threw himself down. His whole body screamed in pain as the cold snow pressed against his blistered skin. He felt something hard pressing into his side and he grabbed at it as he rolled to his feet. The familiar weight of his wand pressed into his hand and he turned to face his attackers as he rose.

"Incendio!" He yelled, brandishing the wand at the pair. A powerful flame exploded into existence in front of them making them stumble backwards, swearing in surprise. The snow quickly evaporated under the intense heat and with a bubbling hiss a wall of steam rose up obscuring Harry from view. He sprinted under the cover of the steam, sending a stream of fire around him as a ran, creating a mist of steam to rise over the plain. Harry grimaced as another blade of light stabbed into his eyes from the glistening ground and nearly tripped over himself. With a tap to his head, inky blackness painted itself in around his eyes shielding him from the painful glare.

A powerful gust of wind pushed rushed past him, uncomfortably rubbing his robes against his tender back. He glanced back and saw a passage had been cut through the mist leading back to a solitary black robed figure. He had barely a second to react as the other man appeared in front of him with a crack, wand already glowing with magic. He threw himself down with a curse as the man blasted the space his head previously occupied. As he rolled over the ground he fired a stunning spell in retaliation that the man casually stepped around.

A barrage of robes sprung from the man's wand and twisted towards the air towards Harry. His blasting spell ripped through the ropes, incinerating them in its passing, before splashing against the man's shield. Continuing his flight towards the man Harry closed his eyes and unleashed an overpowered _Lumos_ , creating a blinding flash of light that sent the man reeling backward rubbing at his eyes futilely. Harry closed the distance to the disabled man and slammed his shoulder into the man's chest as hard as he could. The already off-balance man toppled to the ground with Harry falling down on top of him.

He jabbed his wand into the man's stomach and fired off a quick stunner, stilling his frantic writhing. An oily black snake slithered out of his wand and with hissed instructions coiled up on the warm body of the stunned man. Another wave of his wand and the snow stretched up from either side and encased the body in an icy prison. As soon as the snow sealed shut he was up and running again, as spells hissed by to burn steaming holes of slush into the ground.

The other man was furiously stumbling in pursuit, but his aim was handicapped by the unsteady gait the thick snow forced him to take. The deluge of spells he poured after Harry's retreating back veered wildly and fly harmlessly by him on all sides. Harry concentrated on keeping his legs pumping and his head down as spells hammered the ground around him. A stunning spell finally clipped Harry's arm and he pitched forward as if it had been immobilized.

The tingling numb sensation was shrugged off and Harry twisted to fall prone, facing back toward his attackers. The man didn't realize his mistake until a cutting charm materialized out of the drifting snow heading towards his head. He ducked under the spell with a yelping cry and frantically defended against Harry's return fire. A stunner and a body bind were both deflected into the ground in quick succession, keeping the man's attention from noticing the bone white curse streaking along the ground, nearly invisible among the snow drifts. He let out a scream as the curse impacted against his leg and shredded all the muscles below his knee. With only one leg to support him he violently tumbled forward into the snow.

Fighting against the siren song of unconsciousness he started pulling himself along the ground with his arms and dragged himself the last few metres to his partner. He tapped his wand against the ceiling of the icy tomb and it pulled itself back open to reveal the still form of his companion. In response a hissing black snake reared its head out of the hole in the ground and sunk its teeth into his arm before he could pull it back. Harry observed from afar as the black robed man slumped over next to his partner, motionless.

Gingerly he pulled himself to his feet, still shaken up from his arrival to this field. As he stood, panting in the icy air, the adrenaline of the battle slowly drained from his body, leaving his nerves screaming in agony from his wounds. He turned his wand over with his fingers and grimaced at the blistered and bloody flesh of his hand. Each twisting flurry of snow carried by the wind that brushed against him stung violently against his brutalized skin.

He staggered slightly in place as he pulled his feet up out of the thick snow. A glance around the empty plain around gave him no clues to where Voldemort had sent him, the silent white expanse devoid of any signs of human presence. He pulled the robe tighter around his body in a futile attempt to keep out the icy cold. He flicked his wand and a blazing lick of fire sprung from the tip, flickering in front of his face. He reached out a shaky hand above the heat and the fire slowly coiled into his palm. The weak flame slowly massaged the circulation back into his hands, the layer of snow matted over his robes melting off into slush.

"Point me the nearest town." He whispered to his wand, not willing to risk apparition. It rotated in his wand and pointed out towards the distant tree line. He set off in a limping shamble through the snow, body crying in pain at every step. He drew the cloak tight around his brutalized body and layered an impervious charm over it to keep the snow out. Combined with the ball of fire he held tight in his hand, it was enough to hold back the chill threatening to sap the energy from his limbs and leave him too exhausted to flee winter's grasp.

Soon each step through the lifeless thicket became a battle of willpower against the drowsiness that seeped into his muscles and pushed back against each movement. Pure stubbornness was the only thing that pushed him forward, refusing to let himself give into the cold. He wasn't sure how long he plodded through the step, focusing on each step forward, wrenching his foot free from the snow and slumping forward another stride. Eventually, he crested a knoll to peer down upon the pleasant orange glow of civilization.

He set forth down the hill with increased vigor, exhaustion long forgotten, as the phantom heat of a future bed warmed his limbs and eased their ache. It didn't take long before he was stumping down a paved road in the heart of the town, seeking out a place he could rest. The townsfolk were mostly indoors to escape the chill of the winter night, and the few he passed quickly bustled past him heads down, too intent on getting back to shelter to notice the stranger in their town. Up ahead, rich golden light poured out of the windows of a squat little building hunched over on the street corner, spilling out onto Harry's path and drawing him to it instinctively.

As he stepped into the building a raspy sigh rushed from his lungs and he leaned against the wall as his body realized its trial was finally at an end. There were a few unoccupied tables clustered by a fireplace over on one side of the room while the other was dominated by an imposing wooden desk. The door behind the desk swung open as the old owner tottered out, his gaunt face pinched in suspicion.

"Looking fer a room?" the man croaked out. Harry pushed himself off the wall and limped his way to the desk, hoping the shadow of the fireplace behind him would hide his wounds from sight.

"Aye sir, just for the night. Anything will do, I don't mind the discomfort." Harry responded with an attempt at a forcing a friendly smile on his face. The man's rheumy eyes squinted in concentration as he tried to see through the shadows shrouding Harry's face. He coughed and leaned down under the desk, seemingly satisfied with what he saw. As he stood back up with a groan and the crack of old joints he dropped an old and battered key on the desk.

"Here you go then lad. It's the third room from the top of the stairs." Harry nodded his thanks and dropped and handful of muggle money onto the desk.

The room was small, there was barely enough room for the small stand by the bed but he had stayed in far worse. He threw back the thin ratty sheets and slipped into the bed. His head barely touched the pillow before he was unconscious.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Harry started awake as his chin bounced softly off his chest. He tried to blink the vision back into his bleary eyes, but the room refused to come into focus, maintaining itself as a hazy grey blur. He tried to stretch his aching muscles, but they strained futilely against bonds that were ice cold to the touch. Panicked, he tried to jump to his feet, but produced no movement besides the tinkling of chain links shifting against each other. He twisted violently in place, but the chains suddenly grew tighter, pulling him flush against the chair.

He heard the creaking of hinges and a gust of air as someone entered the room. An indistinct shape paced around the room, fiddling with various indecipherable objects before finally settling down in front of Harry. The figure waved something in front of him and placed it down between them.

"You know where you are boy?" The man asked him. Harry glared back at him.

"I really couldn't tell you." The man stood still for a second before jotting something down on a piece of parchment.

"That's an interesting accent you got there." Harry snorted in response. "You from the isle?" The man questioned.

"Raised in Surrey." Harry spit out.

"But not born?" He retorted.

Harry let out a derisive laugh and fixed the blurry man in front of him with a scornful look. "You know damn well where I was born."

"Well, it pains me to tell you, but I don't know a damn thing about you. Believe me, we've tried just about every measure we are legally allowed to implement and yet, we have not discovered one sliver of evidence you ever stepped foot in this country. As far as Britain is considered you do not exist. So, I'd like it if you dropped the little accent and told me where you're from, who you're working for, and how you ripped through decades worth of protective enchantment like they were tissue paper."

Harry almost reeled back from the sudden switch in atmosphere. "Are you out of your mind? Do you seriously not recognize me? My face has been in the papers weekly for almost the past decade."

The man scoffed in response. "Not in our paper, boy. I think that we would've noticed that."

"Does the name Harry Potter ring any bells? Mean anything to you?" Harry said.

"Not particularly, no. No Potter I've heard of called Harry." Harry mouth hung slightly ajar, mid-word, as he tried to process that.

"No? But–how can–what?" He trailed off uselessly. "Where did you find me?"

The man snorted and shook his head. "The hitwizard response team found you sleeping in a mundane inn about thirty kilometers inside the coast. Your injuries from breaching the Isle's protections left you unresponsive and you were detained without a struggle." Harry could sense the sneer radiating across the table at him. "I suppose congratulations are in order 'Harry', you've gotten farther than anyone else has in the last century. I wonder how long that feeling will last you in Azkaban." The man spat.

Harry glared back at him. Straining desperately against the chains he raised his hands to the interrogator, displaying the scabbed and brutalized appendages. "I got these _before_ I came here, I didn't touch any of your enchantments. The last thing I remember before waking up here was being cursed by Voldemort."

" _That's_ your cover story? It was an _accident_? Sorry officer, I was hit with a hex so hard I smashed through those sixteen layers of charms developed to withstand artillery barrages from the entirety of the muggle armies in Europe." The man retorted.

"Well it wasn't the jelly legs jinx you smarmy little muppet, it was fucking Voldemort. I don't know how he did it, but if we've all learned one thing it's that normal limitations don't really apply to him."

The man leaned forward in his chair, seemingly agitated. "Who is this Voldemort you are talking about? Is that some sort of French band?"

That successfully stopped Harry from continuing his roll as he choked on his next words, eyes bugging out. It didn't seem possible, but then again why would they pretend to be ignorant? He couldn't figure out what they could possibly have to gain by pretending the two most famous wizards in the world didn't exist. Whatever that ritual with the philosopher's stone did, he was starting to get worried.

"I swear if Tom went mucking about with time…" He muttered under his breath. From everything he understood that was impossible, but it made a worrying amount of sense.

"What was that?" The man said sharply.

"Nothing I was just—confused. I think my injuries might be affecting my thinking. Is—what year is it again?" He asked with a befuddled tone.

The man peered at him suspiciously. "Nineteen ninety-seven. Are you trying to claim memory loss now?" Harry jolted in surprise at the date before he could contain himself. Three years was an unheard-of amount of time to travel backwards, unbelievably far beyond any successful previous attempts made with time turners. Yet still not far enough to explain his interrogator's apparent ignorance. Unfortunately, the man seemed to pick up on his surprise at the date.

"Are you—no you can't be. Are you trying to say you're a _time traveler_. That's the most absurd defense I have ever heard, and I've been processing barmy wizards for thirty years. You're clearly either stalling me or your handlers scrambled your brains to cover their tracks. Either way I'm done with you wasting my time."

The man started firing questions at Harry about his past as fast as he could answer, cutting off any replies he deemed too long and stifling any unrelated statements. The questions varied wildly, from detailed explanations of his memories of Hogwarts to his favorite flavor at Fortescue's. With every answer the man seemed even more agitated, desperate to find a hole in his story.

After Harry was finished miming how he caught the snitch in his first match, the man abruptly stood up. "Frankly I'm impressed. Your handler's have really outdone themselves. You have an entire lifetime of fabricated memories stored, completely fictional but drawn from such intimate knowledge of our world you could pass as one of us without anyone noticing. I dread to think how far you could've integrated into our society before your end goal was activated. A dangerous new weapon indeed." He muttered as he strode from the room.

Harry stared at the door long after the man had exited. Something drastic had happened, that he knew for sure. Riddle had once again dived into the forbidden and the infeasible to break the laws of what was possible, and Harry didn't have any clue how he did it. Somehow, at least according to the interrogator, there was no record of him living here, no past, no friends, and nothing but an arrest ledger with his name on it. There wasn't any Voldemort here either, which Harry couldn't help but think was a more than equal trade in his books. Unless, knowing his luck, Voldemort was in a similar situation to himself. A Voldemort with no history with the British inhabitants and who would be free to rejoin society and move unhindered.

Suddenly the idea of sitting and waiting for his captors to return twisted his stomach. He tested the manacles again and was rewarded with them roughly slamming his body back against the chair.

He jerked in his chair as the door swung open again. He must've fallen asleep while he waited but he had no clue exactly how long he had been in the interrogation room. A dark figure swept in and crossed the room to stand in front of him as red robed aurors bustled into the room around him. A series of clicks rang out from the chair underneath him and the chains slipped off his body. An invisible hand grabbed him and pulled him up into the air where he floated gently, bobbing up and down against the ceiling.

"Stunners sir?" An auror questioned from next to him.

"No, the director wants him lucid." The reply was clipped and dry. Harry was escorted from the room and levitated through a series of twisting corridors and hallways, robed witches and wizards conspicuously missing. The harsh glow of electric lights lining the walls gave it a distinctly muggle style that felt out of place with his captors. If they were in the Ministry it was an area he had never seen before. His captors maintained a stony silence as they walked, even the familiar chatter between coworkers was missing, the only noise reaching him was the quiet swishing of their heavy battle robes.

Two blurry red figures stood guard in front of an open doorway at the end of the hallway. It seemed their destination was within the same building. Harry felt a chill down his spine at the idea that they didn't intend for him to ever leave the complex.

A wave of the dark robed figure's hand and the aurors stopped their escort and he led Harry's floating body in by himself. The room was barely lit and dimmed further as the door slid shut behind him. The levitation spell on his body ended and he dropped down into a hard chair.

"I found these among your confiscated possessions, I suspect you're in great need of them." A voice said from the darkness, with a hint of humor coloring his tone. The metal frames of Harry's glasses slid onto his face as a light flickered into existence, illuminating the room. A desk lay in front of him, bare except for a single wand that he recognized as his own. A man sat on the other side, quietly studying Harry's appearance. The slight greying of his hair and wrinkled corners around his eyes were the only indicators of his advanced age, the years only refining his handsome features with a weight of experience and endowing a harsh gleam in his dull crimson eyes. Harry stared at him in horrified fascination. He was almost unrecognizable; if it wasn't for the unique shade of his eyes Harry would never have made the connection to the old memories he had witnessed in Albus's pensieve. It was hard to compare to the reptilian abomination he knew Tom Riddle as, but he could see the similarities to the Hogwarts student just starting his path towards immortality.

Harry cocked his head slightly, "Tom?"

A pleased smile broke out on Riddle's face as he nodded his head in confirmation. "I had hoped you would be familiar with me; it will make this much easier."

Harry narrowed his eyes at him. "What are you talking about?"

"I'm sure that the Ministry interrogation alerted you to some peculiarities about your situation—it certainly brought some things to our attention. Fortuitously we were able to seize control of your processing early enough to eliminate any record of your arrest. I thought it prudent to limit knowledge of your presence to a select few at high clearance. Your interrogator has already been obliviated." He said.

"Easy to make me disappear." Harry stated.

"Quite the opposite actually. It allows you to enter our society as something other than an international criminal. As far as the Ministry is concerned the only evidence of your residence in this country is an arrest record for illegal border apparition and grand magical sabotage." Riddle shook his head, "It would make it impossible for you to stay in the country."

Harry stared at him suspiciously. "That's awfully kind of you," He said sarcastically. "The other interrogator wasn't particularly worried about my future prospects—what with all the crime business and cursing of the aurors."

"Well I admit, I've been rather convinced of your innocence," Riddle started. "As the Director of National Security, I was of course immediately informed of your capture and was presented with the recording of your interrogation upon my arrival. It was increasingly perplexing to my subordinates the longer it went; a man who claimed the name and appearance of a prominent British family, complete with an incredibly fluent history down to the minutiae of senses, but without a single existing record collaborating any of it. 'Terrifying' they said, 'the continent's new super weapon.' Mental veneers so complex and ingrained into sleeper agents that they could slip into our society in droves with no one the wiser. But I suspect that somehow those aren't fake memories, are they?"

"Why, your ego wouldn't let you believe that others have surpassed you in the mind arts?" Harry responded. He felt the escort behind him stiffen in anger.

Tom let out a laugh that sent shivers down Harry's spine. When Voldemort laughed it was harsh and cold and tinged with raw insanity. It mocked and needled as he threw curses at you. It wasn't supposed to bubble up from his stomach and crinkle the skin around his eyes. This Riddle hadn't sunk into the madness that consumed the version Harry was familiar with, he still remembered the charisma of his youth, where only a Dumbledore who had met him at his worst could see through the charm he presented to the world. Harry felt that he might be all the more dangerous for it.

"Perhaps so. Rather there were two important details presented to me that I alone would recognize as the keys to your innocence. First," He extended his hand and tapped on the wand laying in the table in front of him, "is your confiscated wand. Holly and phoenix feather, a strong combination but not unheard of. The aurors made no further note of it. However, I know this wand. Very well in fact, as I was one of the few who installed its pedestal in the Ministry to await its master. Yet, somehow, it is here before me, a perfect copy."

Riddle leaned over the table with an intense look on his face. "Then you said a word that I know that you should not know. A name created in the haze of an orphan's anger and thirst for recognition, that was cast aside before it could be introduced to the world."

Harry stared back at him over the table, a shared conclusion acknowledged but remaining unspoken.

"Just how well did you know me where you came from?" Riddle asked.

Harry smothered a snort. "I'd say I knew you better than anyone else on the planet." Riddle nodded in agreement like that was expected.

"Was I perhaps your mentor?"

"Not quite. You murdered my mentor—as well as my parents—and you tried to kill me when I was a baby. So, then I devoted the rest of my life to you and your follower's complete extermination. I suppose you did teach me a lot in a way, near death experience is the best teacher as they say." Harry gave a vicious grin. Riddle shifted looking distinctly unsettled. The discomfort faded as fast as it appeared, as he donned a thoughtful look.

"That—is rather more violent than I expected." Riddle said. "I had hoped to find an ally. I expected a political rival at worst. I suspect our worlds are vastly divergent as I truly can't imagine what would drive me to commit such crimes against a fellow countryman." Riddle splayed his hands with his palms facing up as he spoke, like he was asking for forgiveness for what his duplicate did. It was distinctly un-Voldemort behavior Harry noted. He would sooner die before admitting a mistake, or Merlin forbid, ask forgiveness—which could only be fully appreciated considering the lengths he went to stay alive.

"He—you're different than he was," Harry offered. "He lost his humanity long before I was born, trading everything for power until all that was left was rage and hate and insanity. You wouldn't even recognize him if you saw him." Riddle listened in captivated silence. "He was a sickness in our society, an infection that kept coming back despite our best efforts to remove him, killing and destroying everyone he touched."

"Are you aware of a genesis of this—corruption? What might have been different in my own life?" Riddle asked.

Harry shrugged. "I don't know if there was any one event that made him what he was. He was already lost by the end of his Hogwarts years and the signs were there even before."

"Then we must truly be unlike each other," Riddle said.

Harry nodded, "I agree. I don't know exactly what sort of man you are and I sure as hell don't expect to like it. But you're not my Voldemort so you're this world's problem."

"I appreciate the endorsement," Riddle drawled. "I assume that he was behind the events that brought you here?"

"He laid a trap for me; I think it was a curse he invented himself—one of many I've encountered. I guess he had finally given up on killing me and decided to try and get rid of me some other way." Harry waved a hand at the surrounding room. "Then I was here."

"Can he replicate it?" Riddle asked.

Harry shook his head, "No. There were some—factors involved that make me believe it was a unique event. You don't have to worry about any more intruders."

"To create such a spectacular piece of magic just to deal with one man—you must be quite a formidable wizard." Riddle said. He didn't seem concerned, but Harry wondered if he was unsettled by the idea.

"The Dark Lord and his followers certainly thought so," Harry answered.

Riddle looked intrigued, "And I was the Dark Lord?" Harry just nodded.

"I wonder then, what became of Grindelwald?"


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Harry stared at a silent Riddle, who was lost in thought. A contemplative frown occupied his handsome face.

Finally Riddle spoke to break the silence, "Not the solution I wished for but perhaps the only believable answer you could give. I think all of Britain has dreamt that Dumbledore had truly killed him that day." Was this the sole divergence, or just one of many? A world with a Grindelwald left to continue his conquest of Europe might be enough to render it completely unrecognizable.

"He lived in my world as well. However, Dumbledore locked him in his own fortress and kept him imprisoned and powerless for the rest of his life," Harry said.

Riddle jolted and leaned forward, his eyes gleaming with interest. "Dumbledore survived and Grindelwald was vanquished—I can scarcely imagine such a world. Were you acquainted with him?" Harry frowned internally. Dumbledore had been a catalyst for so many changes in British society; he was involved in nearly every major legislative reformation and his position at Hogwarts had left every Witch and Wizard touched by his influence. Without his presence in Harry's own time the landscape of British society would have been at the total mercy of affluent blood purists. Half a century without his benevolent involvement could have gravely warped the Britain Harry knew.

But was his absence also responsible for the difference in the Tom Riddle that he saw before him? Dumbledore was the only one who saw through the facade Riddle put on; he had pegged Riddle for the danger he posed the second he had met him. Was this Riddle one who remained uncompromised and had perfected his persona, a monster who scaled the heights of society without revealing his true depravity? Or perhaps Dumbledore's fears and misgivings had manifested in his behavior towards Riddle that pushed him towards the monstrosity he became. It was unknowable in the end. Hell, maybe it was against the universe's laws to have two Dark Lords concurrently and it kept Riddle's humanity to maintain balance. It seemed more plausible than half the magic Harry had encountered.

"Of course," Harry said, "he was the headmaster at Hogwarts in my time. Even more, he was my mentor—I'd say we were friends of a sort." Riddle looked disturbingly excited about this revelation. Then a shadow of disgust flickered over his features.

"That means he would be the mentor you said I—my duplicate murdered." Harry nodded in confirmation.

"His greatest victory. The celebrations among his followers lasted for days." Riddle's expression of disgust deepened. It was almost enough to make Harry laugh at the dissonance; a Tom Riddle who was disgusted with idea of killing Albus Dumbledore, who—Merlin forbid—might actually admire the old man.

"You will find that things are very much different here. In the eyes of much of Britain I am considered the successor in all but name to Albus Dumbledore. I am no addled monster, enslaved to dark magic or addicted to power." Riddle's spat as his eyes gleamed in the dim light. "I have only one purpose and one loyalty. I am the Director of National Security for the Unified British government—its most prominent defender against the encroachment of extranational forces. I live to complete the legacy passed to me: the absolute destruction of Gellert Grindelwald." Riddle's face expressed a terrifying intensity; the staggering willpower that in another life had brought a nation to its knees ringing in every word.

"His empire will be burned to ash, until not a single stone laid by his regime remains in Europe. His followers will be consigned to eternity in the abyss of Azkaban and struck from the records of history. Then we will finally meet in combat like my predecessor did so many years before—and he will be left a charred husk by my wand. Know these are not idle boasts Harry Potter, this is truly the course of history—it is my destiny." Riddle's magic had come untethered by his emotion and pressed down on Harry like a physical weight. It was smothering and intoxicating at the same time, provoking fear yet engendering reverence. Harry felt it compelling him towards Riddle as surely as any subtle mind magic and understood at once how Riddle garnered the admiration of his peers. If his Voldemort was anything like this at his start than his rapid garnering of pure blood loyalties was much more understandable. He too, would claim he had a destiny, but rather his was the subjugation of Britain and the total domination of muggle-kind. This Riddle clearly had the same hunger for greatness, the drive to affirm a grand purpose for his life.

"You might understand this more than any other. Our missions mirror each other in many ways—just as we do ourselves," Riddle said with a savage grin. "Both successors of Dumbledore, wielding twin wands, fighting a war for our people against a deranged dark wizard." Riddle picked Harry's wand off the table and presented it, handle first, to him. "I would like to entreat our shared purpose; Britain would be greater with your wand at its side." Harry took the offered wand silently, the comforting wood grain sliding against his hands in comfortable paths as he twirled it between his fingers.

"This isn't my world Riddle. I—It's not in me to ignore those in need. But my Voldemort is still around, and now he is free to run roughshod all the way back to Britain—where the few people I have left are unprotected. They need me. The whole nation does, as arrogant as that sounds. The time and effort I've spent to gain every inch against him, the things I've done, the things I've lost—I can't rest until its completed," Harry answered.

"I understand. I truly do, more than I could express through mere words. But there's no way back Harry. The magic that brought you here is unprecedented in our world, even in the deepest records of the Unspeakables. I have barely a clue on how to start the approach to such a problem and I am supposedly the one who created it. Maybe if you have some insight into how it was done, anything he let slip, or perhaps details present that could studied from your memory." Riddle trailed off, clearly doubtful.

"Only what I saw during the ritual. That magic is beyond me; but surely this is a challenge worthy of you?"

Riddle looked unimpressed, "I don't think you fully appreciate the fantastic nature of this task. It could take years—whole lifetimes of work have accomplished less. I will not completely abandon my responsibilities to facilitate your attempts at the infeasible. I apologize, but this is your burden." Harry stared intently into the table between them.

"This isn't my fight—these aren't my people. If I'm truly stranded here why would I want to throw myself into another conflict? There are so many things I've never gotten to experience, so many responsibilities that've kept me tied down," Harry said.

"These are still innocent people, your countrymen. They likely wear the same faces, even ones you might've lost. You could help protect them from our own Dark Lord infection," Riddle offered.

Harry didn't raise his gaze from the table. "When I was younger, I would've leapt at the offer. Any chance to help those in need—no matter the risk."

"Most would find that deeply admirable."

"Yeah. They did, mostly. But I'm a stubborn bastard. I need to get back, even if it takes a lifetime," Harry said.

"I see. Unfortunately, you are not a recorded citizen of Britain, nor do you have a license to enter our borders. Without a Special Circumstances certification from a department Director, such as myself, you are a criminal in the eyes of the government. Hopefully, you can achieve an exodus from the country that isn't too unpleasant. Though I expect it will be quite difficult to find a means of employment. I wish you luck in your search for a way back to your home." Harry stared into the cold, hard eyes of another Tom Riddle and let out a snarl.

"Fuck you, Riddle," Harry spat.

Riddle gave him an ugly sneer. "I have been pleasant to you Potter, but I am not your friend. You would be a valuable asset to my cause and so I'm willing to offer you a certain level of leeway. However, I have no intention of letting an incredibly dangerous, dimension-traveling, _child_ roam unchecked in my world."

"So you're gonna coerce me into being some sort of lapdog you can sic on your enemies?" Harry asked.

"You underestimate the opportunity before you." Riddle pointed at the wand tightly gripped in Harry's hand. "That wand is famous in our nation. Dumbledore's phoenix only donated two feathers total to be made into wands. The first became mine and was seen as a symbolic demonstration of my succession to his legacy. The other is displayed prominently in our government's hall. Should you claim it you would be inheriting both of our wills, and the expectation to be the next generation's greatest wizard. There would be no easier way to gain the respect and loyalty of the populace than accepting your place as my pupil. You would hold a position of high esteem in our society—think of the doors that could open, the potential resources that you could access. I am hardly the only great mind in Britain."

Harry gave him a hard stare. "You would make a stranger your successor?"

Riddle nodded pleasantly. "I can think of no better option. Your wand, your history, your talents. You are perhaps the only man in the world I can absolutely trust to not be influenced by foreign agents: it is simply not possible for you to be a traitor. And who else can claim to be a student of Albus Dumbledore and the greatest rival of Tom Riddle."

"I guess I don't have much of an option," Harry sighed.

"Now it's not without its benefits you know. Should you work competently and assist me in achieving my destiny I suppose I will be free from responsibilities to study for a solution to your problem—until the next crises arrives." Harry met his eyes and believed him. He knew Riddle was only saying it to ensure his cooperation—but something told him this Riddle placed value in his word.

"I see. Then that's that I suppose. I'm honored to accept your offer," Harry drawled as he gave Riddle a lazy salute with his wand.

A smug grin creased Riddle's face as he enjoyed his victory. "Excellent. There is much to discuss, but I already have need of you. It's an olive branch of sorts, and it would be beneficial to establish a working relationship of course." He tapped the table with his wand and a packet of photographs popped into existence. "Any relation you're aware of?"

Harry stared in fascination at the moving images before him. A middle-aged couple waved at the camera, the woman's dark red hair blowing in a silent wind as her counterpart adjusted his glasses. A small title and been written underneath in neat letters: James & Lily Potter; 1995. "This—yes. They were my parents."

"The one's my other self murdered?" Harry nodded in affirmation. "Then I suppose it is only fitting I offer you this opportunity. James Potter is a highly respected member of our society, due to both his family name and achievements with his wand. We have often butted heads, more so in recent years as he has joined the ranks of the government. He dismisses any compromise with some of the more…intolerant of our kind and has targeted me in the past for my attempts to placate them. I've tried to reason with him before, but he has already written me off as another untrustworthy bigot. Yet, despite his irritating bullheadedness, I have a measure of respect for him. He is a wizard of talent—one I am glad Britain has." Riddle conjured another pamphlet on the table.

"The British quidditch league final," Harry read out loud. "Falmouth versus Wimbourne."

"Yes, the biggest sporting event of the year. As a lifelong quidditch fan James Potter will of course be attending. Unfortunately, I have uncovered leads that a pocket of Grindelwald sympathizers have grown irritated with Potter's unwavering vocal support of mundanes and decided to make an example of him."

"A terrorist attack then. A high-profile murder during the most followed event in the nation will generate a volatile backlash of fear. The most effective way of sending a message to his compatriots," Harry guessed.

"We suspect so. Potter will be there with his whole family; they won't get a better opportunity. Unfortunately, he is hardly trusting of me and I suspect he would reject any attempt of mine to keep him secure. He would accuse me of trying to cow him with imaginary threats I suspect. Luckily, you present a perfect way to bridge our differences, a national secret that would bring him into my confidence and allow you to keep him safe as my agent."

Harry raised his eyebrows in surprise, "You're going to tell him about me?"

Riddle nodded with a smirk. "I have no doubt that after hearing about your past Potter will be compelled to connect with his blood and try to show you a family. It is the type of man he is. Similarly, he will be forced to be somewhat congenial with me for bringing him to you; and I will finally have the opportunity to get past his bias and establish myself as a potential ally."

Harry looked down at the smiling couple waving up at him from the photograph. "When do we start?"

"We meet tomorrow. We'll need to clean you up of course and I should probably fix some of that damage." Riddle waved a hand in the general direction of Harry's face. Harry grinned and ran a finger down the sore, blistered skin of his cheek.

"Afraid I'll scare your potential allies away?"

"You would start a riot in Diagon Ally with that face, inferi are more pleasant to look at." Harry just laughed.

* * *

Harry sighed in relief as he pulled the foul poultice wrap from his face. His body had been practically swaddled in all kinds of salves and bandages since the previous night. He would've rather downed a few of Madam Pomfrey's foul potions and gotten it over in one go than breath in those noxious fumes all night as he tried to get to sleep. Riddle gave him an assessing once over before nodding.

"I believe that is as good as it is going to get. You're still a bit more scarred than most civilians are going to be comfortable with—not to mention that hand, even as ingenious as it is."

Harry flexed the hand in question, a devilishly clever prosthesis devised by some of the brightest witches and wizards of their time. An elegant contraption of blackened steel and segmented with fully operational joints of dragon bone inlaid with bronze glyphs that gleamed dimly in the light. If one looked closely, they would see minuscule sigils and characters carved throughout the surface that helped maintain the enchantments placed on it.

"Dark magic leaves wounds that can't be erased," Harry shrugged. "Most of them are too old to be healed anyway." He walked over to the rooms mirror that hung over the sink. An unfamiliar face stared back at him. The lines of his face were reminiscent of their previous alignment but had been slightly tugged in new directions, cheekbones jutting out high above his cheeks, jaw cutting more pronounced against his neckline. His hair remained almost the same, retaining its same color but laying a little more calmly upon his head. The only thing that remained unchanged were the harsh scars that cut across his pale skin. Bold and pronounced they broke up the perfect symmetry of his face and made it a fearsome thing. He was no Moody, luckily they stayed shy of grotesque, but they still served as a testament to his struggles. Some witches said it made him look _rugged_ —they always said it with a sultry admiration, but it always made him feel like an old boot. He barely noticed any of it as he stared transfixed into the red gaze peering back at him.

"The hell did you do to me?" Harry exclaimed. "I look like you!" Riddle stepped behind him to join him in the mirror, side by side the resemblance was markedly noticeable.

"I could hardly have you walking around as the unmistakable child of the Potters," Riddle answered, waving his hand dismissively. "There is old magic tied to the idea of great wizards taking on heirs, I merely brought it to bear. Now, no one would think to question your claim as my successor—plus it fixed that terrible reliance you had for those glasses." Harry started as he realized that the glass-less face in the mirror was glowering back at him crystal clear.

"Do they really have to be red? I always thought it was a bit obnoxious—too on the nose really. I like my old color a lot more."

Riddle's reflection smiled at him. "Magic has recognized the connection between us; you're stuck with it I'm afraid. Besides, it's a helpful tool for intimidation, it makes people very uncomfortable."

"I thought you already said I was too intimidating?" Harry gestured at his face.

"Hardly, I meant it was disturbing. Aesthetic wise. There is nothing intimidating about a man who makes a habit of blocking curses with his face," Riddle scoffed. Harry rolled his eyes and went back to studying his appearance in the mirror.

"Are you sure you want to tell my—James Potter about me?"

Riddle's eyes narrowed. "I can't believe you're getting nervous."

"I'm not nervous," Harry protested, "I just don't know how he's going to react."

"I just saw you peel curse-burned skin off your arms without flinching while telling me a story about blasting some dark wizard's lungs out his back. This is beneath you," Riddle sneered. It was hardly a pep talk but for some reason Harry felt a little calmer.

"To tell you the truth I'd rather take the dark wizard. That's what I'm made for—I'm a little uncomfortable with all this family stuff."

Riddle stared at him inscrutably in the mirror before adding, "I suppose I can sympathize with that."

Harry's wand slipped into its familiar place in his hand as he spun in place. "Well let's go get this over with then."


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

Harry leaned against a wall, bored out of his mind, shooting multicolored sparks into the air to keep himself entertained. Riddle was in the locked room behind him speaking with James Potter, presumably convincing him of Harry's existence. He was waiting outside because Riddle didn't want James to feel outnumbered or on the defensive. Harry thought he was perhaps just wanting to indulge in his flair for the dramatic. Voldemort always loved a bit of a spectacle. Finally, the click of the door unlocking rang out which Harry took as an invitation.

He stepped into the room, a small meeting room in Riddle's residence, sparsely decorated besides the arrangement of straight-backed wooden chairs encircling a table. James Potter sat facing the door, back arched as he held his chin in consternation. Harry walked cautiously to one of the chairs but opted to continue standing behind it as he observed the man who was a perfect replica of his father. Harry's James Potter had died barely out of Hogwarts, every picture of him was of a mischievous smiling youth, every story about the trouble he would get up to in school. This James Potter had left his school days long behind him and had donned a heavy mantle of responsibility. His hair was greying, and a trimmed beard framed the stern features of his face. Harry found that it was disturbingly easy to separate this man from his own father; but was fascinated all the same to see what he might have grown into.

"So, you're the new Potter Riddle discovered, eh?" He mused. He turned to Riddle with a raised eyebrow, "You sure he's my son? He looks more like he's yours than he does mine." Harry couldn't help the burst of heartache hearing that.

"The magic that bound him as my apprentice had some noticeable physical effects; something to do with me having no natural born heir I suspect. But look closer Mr. Potter, your features are still present."

James's eyes narrowed and he focused on Harry's face. His gaze was heavy and appraising; it made Harry feel like a puny first year squirming in front of the Sorting. "There might be something there I suppose. Perhaps like a distant cousin."

"I used to have Lily's eyes." Harry added. He wasn't sure why he felt the need to interject with that. They weren't really related. Yet the idea of this other James Potter denying their connection was disconcertingly unpalatable to him.

James eyed him grimly, "A pity then." Harry felt a frown tug on his mouth. "Riddle spun quite a tale about you. My son from a world without Grindelwald; where instead Riddle took his place as a mass-murdering psychopath. He apparently found you so hard to kill that, Merlin knows how, he created a ritual to throw you all the way here. Seems a bit far-fetched."

"Mr. Potter has been obstinate in recognizing the significance of your wand and as well as your knowledge of our society," Riddle noted.

"You're the one who oversees the wand's pedestal Riddle. As far as I know you already swapped it out for a fake," James dismissed. "Everything else you could be feeding him. I know enough about your talents."

Riddle glared at him over the table and James met it with an even stare. "Is that all, gentlemen?" He asked.

"Prongs." Harry stated to the room. James's eyes widened and flickered fast as lightning to focus on Harry.

"What did you say?" He asked quietly, his voice undercut by something dangerous.

"Prongs," Harry repeated. "Padfoot. Moony. W—Wormtail." James shot to his feet and the chair nearly toppled over behind him.

"Where did you learn those names, boy?" Riddle stared at the two of them in open fascination, almost gleeful at James's broken composure.

"They told me," Harry answered calmly. His wand flickered up and pointed to the side. "Expecto Patronum," he barely whispered. A gleaming stag, cloaked in starlight, burst from his wand with a joyful trill, and galloped through the air. It was a smaller room so the Patronus was only a fraction of its full size, but it was so finely detailed you could see individual ghostly muscles rippling under the skin; like you could almost reach out and touch its gleaming hide. Its gallop paused in front of James and it let out a happy snort. James stared at in shock, his face pale in its ethereal light. Riddle's eyes flicked back and forth between the two Potters, curious about what had passed between them.

James raised his head and met Harry's eyes directly. The first hint of a smile tugged on the corner of his mouth and he shook his head on amazement.

"I believe you."

"Truly?" Riddle looked completely perplexed at what had happened in front of him.

"Riddle says we—your parents were killed when you were a baby," James said, choosing to ignore Riddle. Harry nodded in confirmation. "Who raised you then? Sirius? Remus?"

"I was left with Petunia and her husband." Harry couldn't help the note of distaste that colored his tone when saying his Aunt's name.

"Petunia?" James said incredulously, something he picked up from Harry's answer hardening his face. He turned to Riddle, "You said you wanted to insert him into our party for the quidditch final as extra security?"

Riddle nodded, "There is danger for you there Mr. Potter. And I believed that he would be the only one of my subordinates you wouldn't refuse."

James adopted a contemplative look. "My family would be more comfortable if they were acquainted with our guard instead of a total stranger. I think it'd be best if we arranged for Harry to meet with his charges before the day of the match, so that they can become familiar with each other."

"Of course, Mr. Potter, whatever you deem optimal." Riddle said with an amused smile.

"Good, good. Well then Harry, it's getting late, but I believe I'll be seeing you soon." Harry blinked as a James patted his shoulder and swept from the room, leaving him alone with Riddle and his self-satisfied grin.

* * *

Riddle predicted that the Potters wouldn't contact them for a few weeks yet, which gave them plenty of time to prepare Harry's identity. Harry, to his great distaste, wasn't familiar enough yet to make such judgements and had to trust Riddle in these matters. At least Riddle seemed to understand his discomfort in sharing living space with a former enemy and left Harry mostly to himself in the house. That may have been due more to the demands of his office than any interest in courtesy if Harry thought realistically; Riddle was hardly the type to worry about other people's comfort.

He had generously allowed Harry to take residence in the guest room of his comfortable London home, allowing him to monitor Harry at all times and make sure he didn't make any unsanctioned visits into public. He still had to finish constructing his new identity and Riddle didn't want a wrench thrown into his plans for Harry's contrived 'introduction' to the public. Besides, his features were rather distinctive, and it was unlikely he could stay inconspicuous if he ventured out.

Confined to the empty house Harry kept himself busy by reading stacks of old newspapers and historical journals Riddle had procured for him in order to educate himself in the differences from his past. Riddle had also made it a point to involve Harry in what felt like interrogations about both current and past events in order to notice any gaps in his knowledge that someone else could potentially pick up on. Those made up the majority of their limited interaction when Riddle was in the house, usually over a meal prepared by the elves or when they crossed paths in Riddle's library.

It was slow work, to his frustration, as this world's history had been altered drastically from what he was familiar with. He found their assumption of Grindelwald's duel with Dumbledore being the divergent point to be mostly correct; at least that's where it started feeling unfamiliar. There weren't a lot of reliable sources detailing the end of the war and Riddle was still too young to be involved, he had to rely mainly on propaganda pieces the British Ministry had flooded the streets with after their wizards returned home shouting Dumbledore's praises. Even Riddle seemed to have fully bought into the furor surrounding Dumbledore's duel with Grindelwald, which had apparently forced the dark wizard to flee his forces with grievous injuries.

"Very possibly one of the most powerful wizards ever born." Riddle called him. When Harry remarked that he hadn't thought Riddle was one to fall prey to state media campaigns Riddle narrowed his eyes.

"Your own experiences have biased you against understanding what he was capable of. You knew him as an old man, long past his days of action—simply content to guide the younger generations. But didn't you say that even in the waning years of his life, when he was sick and dying of curse damage, my counterpart still feared a duel with him?"

"I'm well aware of Voldemort's cowardice," Harry answered.

"But did you not also say he was a massive egomaniac, completely convinced in his superiority over all other wizards? If he truly had such an inflated confidence in his abilities why wouldn't he believe he could defeat an old schoolteacher?" Riddle shot back, "Or perhaps, the logical conclusion is that he understood the level of power that he still faced. They say in the hours after Grindelwald's defeat that Nurmengard turned into hell on Earth; Grindelwald had created last resort measures in case of his defeat. Dumbledore stayed behind in that deathtrap fighting against its cursed destruction singlehandedly until every single wizard had been evacuated. Only then did he allow the curse damage he took from Grindelwald finally kill him."

Riddle shook his head. "I am not sure of many others, if any at all, who could accomplish what he did." Harry just nodded in agreement so that he could end the conversation and go back to his journal. Harry knew a losing battle when he saw one, Dumbledore's legacy had certainly become ingrained into their society's fabric like some sort of modern Merlin. It was doubtful that anyone really knew exactly what happened and he suspected that Riddle's would be the least exaggerated tale he would find.

He didn't spend much time on it, the chaos surrounding Grindelwald's return was a clearly more important topic to educate himself on. It was rapid, bloody, and absolute; almost the total opposite of his initial rise to power. Then outrageously, in an unprecedented move, Grindelwald seized control of the muggle governments and used them to publicly blare the existence of Wizardkind to the world. He threw the rest of the world into turmoil as the population became aware of their hidden counterparts, while he focused his attention internally to establishing a magically dominant regime. Riddle was a member of the merged government structure that eventually arose in Britain.

From what Harry gathered in his talks with Riddle there were still some blood-purist types remaining in Britain, quietly supportive of the tactics Grindelwald's oppressive regime used on muggles and actively campaigned for acts advocating wizarding supremacy. These neo-supremacists were the ones Riddle believed were planning an attack on James Potter and his family. Harry wondered if they would be the same people who had been Death Eaters in his world. He wouldn't be surprised.

Riddle received a message from James Potter two weeks after their meeting, just as he predicted, annoyingly. James wanted to retrieve Harry two days before the match and have him stay at the Potter's house in the days leading up to it. Supposedly to acquaint his family with the idea of having an assigned security detail. Riddle had scoffed at that and made some derisive comments about his 'soft heart' while smirking at Harry. He just ignored it.

* * *

Harry spun out of the floo violently, as usual, catching himself on a helpfully placed chair. A laugh rang out behind him making him spin around. James Potter leaned against the doorframe, simple muggle clothes on instead of robes, his face relaxed into a pleasant smile that hadn't been shown while he was at Riddle's.

"Welcome, Harry," James greeted as he walked forward. Harry met him with a firm handshake. "Are these all your belongings?" James asked, gesturing at the small trunk Harry had brought with him.

"Yes, sir."

James waved him off. "None of that now—we're practically family," He said with a wink. "Just leave that for the elves. I'd like you to meet the rest of the Potters." Harry blinked as a strong hand gripped his shoulder and started pulling him towards the door. They had barely halved the distance when James jerked to a stop again.

"I had a thought; are you perhaps going by a different name now? I mean I don't want to take it away from you but I don't know how I'd explain another Potter to the world—or, hell, the kids. But, well—I'm sure we could do something. Probably some old squib cousin we could dig up from a few generations back," He offered weakly.

Harry grinned at him, "We decided Harry Evans would be appropriate."

James looked relieved. "Oh, Lily's old name," he gave a snort. "She'll probably get a kick out of that. Harry Evans it is." With that settled James continued leading Harry out into the house proper. It was very clearly not the house from Godric's Hollow, the hallway they were currently walking through stretched out longer than the old house was wide. The rooms he peeked into as he passed were all furnished in expensive looking décor, regal paintings and Persian rugs giving them an air of extravagance.

"You seem to be doing very well for yourself," Harry remarked.

James shrugged in response. "It's inherited actually. But, yes, any wizard worth their wand is well off these days. We have the mundanes to thank, as much as some others wouldn't want to admit. There is a great demand for wizarding skills among them—construction, medicine, entertainment. Whatever you can think of. Even if all you can do is brew some simple potions you'll find plenty of buyers willing to pay a tidy sum."

"Are most wizards working for mug—mundanes these days?"

"The majority don't," James responded, "but I think most of us have dabbled in it a bit. It's hard to pass up the money when you're young and want the world. Most men my age have made their money and have found their own hobbies to pursue and vices to waste it on. Unfortunately, it gives some of them nothing better to do but sit around and complain; about mundanes, foreigners, whatever the flavor of the week is."

"Never was one much for politics myself," Harry said.

"Then we'll get on just fine, I think," James replied with a smile. "The others should be waiting for us to join them for dinner."

James stopped Harry with a hand again. "Please, be prepared to make some allowances for them, they don't know who you really are—and they weren't too pleased with the idea of being under guard. Not to mention that you're Riddle's apprentice. I haven't exactly painted a very complimentary picture of him over the years. I'm worried that they may be a little…unfriendly."

"No worries. It's understandable they will have some reservations about me, but it won't be a problem. I promise it won't affect my dedication to keeping them safe," Harry said.

James looked pained. "Well…that's good to hear. Just keep that in mind—but I'm sure they'll warm up to you in no time. They'll just need to get used to your presence and—well, uh, your appearance if I'm honest."

Harry nodded and touched one of the prominent scars that ran across his face, tracing its path, arching down around his eye and trailing down till it almost kissed the edge of his mouth. "I've been told they are quite unsightly. I honestly haven't thought about them much recently; everyone was used to it back home."

"They're not that bad…" James trailed off at Harry's raised eyebrows. "Well they're a little unsettling, but not _that_ bad. But its different with wizards you know, there's not much we can't heal as good as new and most of us grow up without ever getting a scar; even the rough and tumble quidditch types. The only scars kids their age have seen are on the veterans of the older generations, who have been at the receiving end of a dark curse. It'll be difficult for them to imagine someone not much older than them with that sort of past."

Harry just shrugged. "I'll keep it in mind." James gave him a nervous smile and the rest of their walk was in silence.

Three people were already sitting at the table when James and Harry entered the room. On one side sat a tall broad-shouldered teen slumped over in his seat staring at his plate in boredom. Across from him a younger girl fidgeted in her seat, nervously twirling her dark red hair between her fingers. At the head of the table a beaming Lily sat facing them as they walked in.

"Oh, this must be Harry," She exclaimed. "It's lovely to meet you dear." She quickly bustled from the table to greet him. Harry had the strangest premonition that she was going to hug him and impulsively stuck his hand out in greeting to forestall it. She gave him a puzzled smile as the skin around her eyes tightened but she gripped his hand in an awkward handshake all the same.

"Thank you for your hospitality, ma'am." He responded as she immediately gave him the same admonition about formality he got from James about five minutes prior.

James cleared his throat and awkwardly gestured from beside Harry. "Kids, this is Harry Evans," Harry heard Lily let out a little gasp at his name, "he's been assigned to us as our personal security for the quidditch cup while the threat against me is investigated. We'll be putting him up until the day of the match and I hope you'll do your best to make him feel comfortable." Having said his piece James made to sit down. The girl was staring at him in what looked like terror, her hand tangled up in her hair. The boy seemed split between dismay and a speculative look. Finally, he found his voice.

"He seems pretty young, like not much older than me. I think," He finished with a mumble.

James nodded, "He's only got about three years on you, true. But he has both Director Riddle's and my own full confidence so you should afford him with that respect."

"He's also right here and capable of speaking to you himself," Lily cut in with a warning look at her son. "Now, stop being rude and introduce yourselves."

"I'm Jimmy," the boy said with a wave, "Are you really Riddle's apprentice?"

Harry preempted Lily's indignant response with a simple "Yes."

"And you've done this sort of thing before?"

"I have been involved in similar situations before, yes." Almost always as the actual target but he left that part out. The kid wouldn't believe him if he learned how _overqualified_ for this Harry really was.

Jimmy seemed to accept this and gave him an approving nod. His eyes traced the scars lining Harry's face with an impressed look.

"Violet." Lily clucked.

The girl jolted and desperately tried to pull the tangles out of her hair. "H—Hi. I'm Violet." She gave him a confident smile and wave, but it was ruined by her inability to meet his eyes. Every time they rose to match his they flickered away to stare back down at the table or her parents, and the longer she held her smile the more strained it looked.

"Excellent," Lily decided and pulled Harry down to sit at the head of the table opposite her. James had plopped down next Jimmy and sighed in satisfaction when Lily finally made her way back to sit down. Through some unspoken cue as soon as she settled into place the dishes populated themselves with food. Harry wondered if his parents had also owned elves.

The dinner was delicious and the conversation was carried by the adults, which Harry found ideal. He focused on his food intently as if his concentration on eating would allow him to slowly fade from notice until the family would feel freed from his intrusion into their home. Every awkward one sentence response the kids gave as they looked at him surreptitiously from the corner of their eyes prickled at the back of his neck and made him wish he could disillusion himself and leave to eat dinner in an unoccupied room. Unfortunately, he figured Lily would find it unacceptable. James probably wouldn't care but he wouldn't risk his wife's ire by admitting it. She seemed determined to incorporate him into their discussion, repeatedly asking one of her children a question and then pivoting with a lead in directed at him. Then she would stare at him with that hopeful look and those eyes that he'd only seen in mirrors and he couldn't very well let it go unanswered.

"I know it's your last year Jimmy, but a Firebolt is a professional level broom—it's just too dangerous for school matches."

"You know we'll see them in action at the match coming up," James cut in at Jimmy's rebellious look. "Then we can see if they're really all they're hyped up to be."

"How about you Harry, are you a fan of quidditch? I bet a boy like you used to play," Lily said. Harry wondered what that meant, and how she could possibly know what type of boy he used to be.

"Yes, I played when I was younger," He answered, "But I never spent much time following it as a spectator."

"Why'd you stop?" Jimmy asked, addressing Harry for the first time since their initial introduction.

Harry waffled on the question for a few seconds and looked at James hesitantly. He gave a little shrug and a pointed discreetly back at Harry. He took that to mean it was up to him.

"I became—involved with greater responsibilities and struggled to find the time. It became more and more of a pointless distraction and lost its appeal."

Jimmy looked unhappy with that, but another scan of Harry's face and he seemed to find a compromise with it. "I suppose that after other things it wouldn't seem as exciting as before." Harry didn't bother to correct him. It was still just as exciting as ever, but it was harder to explain how your priorities can change when your life becomes dominated by surviving attempts on your life from a psychotic Dark Lord. Lily glared at her son, apparently unhappy with any acknowledgment of the visible proof of Harry's violent past. She turned back to Harry with a gentle smile.

"Harry, why don't I show you where you'll be staying." Eager to take any opportunity for escape, Harry agreed and stood up from the table enthusiastically. She led him from the table and back up a staircase. Their walk was silent, only marked by the rhythmic clicks of their steps, a reversal of her loquaciousness at dinner. Harry suspected that it had been for the benefit of the family and that she was aware he was more comfortable with silence. Eventually she stopped at a door and pushed it open, revealing a modest sized room dominated by a bed draped in dark red sheets. He saw his trunk had been pushed under the edge of the bed and suspected the elves had taken the liberty of moving his clothes to the wardrobe sitting in the corner.

"The bathroom is the door right across the hall. You'll be the only one using it." Lily told him as she bustled around the room, ensuring everything was as it should. He watched her for a few seconds before making his way to the wardrobe. A quick check proved his earlier assumption and he closed it back up.

"James told me about your past—your real past." He turned around with wide eyes. She gave him an apologetic look. "He really can't keep anything from me. At least nothing this important. My son from another life." She said with a rueful shake of her head.

"I'm not your son. Not really." He corrected when he realized how harsh it came out.

"I know," she said with a sad chuckle. "But you never knew your mother, did you Harry?" Harry didn't answer.

"James said you were raised by Petunia. I don't know what she was like to you, but I know what my Petunia is like. She was obsessed with jealousy; she hated how our parents favored me because I was their ticket into the wealthy wizarding culture. She so desperately wished that she was the one who was special that it turned her into a spiteful, bitter perversion of her worst aspects; she swore off both me and my family and our last meeting was…unpleasant. I can't imagine leaving either of my children with her."

Harry took a few seconds of silence before answering, "My Aunt was similar to what you described. Growing up with her was…not ideal."

Lily gave him a sad knowing smile. "I've been thinking it over since James told me about you." She slowly crossed the room to stand directly in front of him, staring up into his face.

"I know you're not my son. I _know_." Harry stared back down at her, rooted in place. He could feel his stomach twisting uncomfortably and his hand slipped into his pocket where it could wrap around the familiar handle of his wand.

"It's very important you understand that, Harry." She had a serious look on her face and every time she said his name he felt a stab in his heart. "Because I still think you could be family, even if we don't have a name for what you are. You're not my son, but you are connected to me, and I don't want you to think I'm confused about this."

"I know you're an adult. You've probably been one for a long time," she said, acknowledging his scars for the first time with a sorrowful glance. "But I'd still like you to consider staying with us after your assignment. And maybe you can find something here you haven't had before." A family. A _real_ family, was implied unspoken.

"I—you've only just met me," Harry protested.

She gave him a mischievous grin, her previous sincerity melting away. "James always said I was too impulsive for my own good. Just think on it this next few days." With that she swept from the room.

Harry felt himself longing for the day of the match and the possibility of danger. He was not accustomed to fancy manors and doting mothers, even if it was nice at times. Wand in hand, curses flying at him, death all around him; that was where he truly belonged.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

The grounds around the stadium were absolutely teeming with people, maybe half wearing the colors of the competing teams. The rest were a mixture of dedicated muggle and magical quidditch enthusiasts who had traveled from all over to watch the greatest teams in the country play. The lack of robes present suggested that magicals might make up the minority of the fanbase. Harry knew the inclusion of muggle fans had ballooned the sport into a massive national market and flooded the leagues with absurd amounts of money. Star quidditch players became some of the most celebrated members of the society overnight; their jersey and merchandise sales alone could support whole swathes of wizards.

Jimmy walked next to Harry, decked out in the Wasp's bright yellow and black, eagerly chattering away about the team. After he got over his initial uncertainty about Harry's presence the boy seemed to gravitate towards him, happy to have another person his age around. Harry could tell Lily was pleased by it, she would always give them a little smile whenever she saw the two together and would make sure to leave them undisturbed; but he wondered what she would think about the unhealthy admiration Jimmy seemed to hold towards him for his violent history. There was a deference in his conversation and a fascination in his eyes whenever he asked about a particular scar or dueling technique. Harry found it easier to slip into a mentor role, something he had plenty of experience in, than figure out how to deal with his almost-brother; and so, these types of interactions dominated the times he spoke. The rest of the time Jimmy seemed content to drive the conversation and talk about Hogwarts or quidditch, while Harry listened comfortably. It was an arrangement that both were pleased with.

Violet, on the other hand, still kept her distance. She had seemingly gotten over her initial fear and no longer acted uncomfortable in his presence—but made an effort to never interact with him on her own. Even now, as they walked up to the stadium, she stayed on the other side of James. A pair of robed wizards knocked into Harry as they rushed by, grumbling in what sounded like Cantonese. Another byproduct of the sudden unveiling of the wizarding world. Not all muggle governments had the same working relationship with their counterparts that Britain did; if they knew about their existence at all. In the chaos of unifying two peoples some had ended less than amicably, forcing their wizarding populations to flee their homeland. Britain had been one of the first to solidify their new society and had been more than eager to swell their ranks. Their current magical population was significantly larger than in Harry's world and a substantial portion claimed heritage that wasn't British.

"Harry," Jimmy whispered. Harry turned his head and saw the boy look around in a poor attempt to inspect his surroundings discreetly. It was almost endearing in his honesty that he thought wizards needed physical proximity to eavesdrop. "Do you think my dad's really in danger here?"

Harry met Jimmy's gaze and noticed the worried lines creasing his face, out of place in comparison to the gleeful excitement that he had shown all morning. He thought about telling him what Riddle said, but he watched as Jimmy's gaze flickered between him and his family—resting on their faces for a second but sliding off before they noticed, nervously tugging on the sleeves of his robes. As he waited for an answer, a stranger bumped shoulders with his father. Jimmy's back straightened and his gaze hardened, staring at the oblivious offender with surprisingly cold suspicion. He looked like he might start throwing curses.

"He'll be fine," Harry finally said. "There's no certainty there is a threat at all—these types are all talk usually, you know." Jimmy nodded firmly in agreement, but Harry wasn't sure if he knew what type Harry meant at all or just wanted to latch onto the sentiment.

"Riddle's been looking into it closely; if there's anything substantial his agents will probably shut it down before it starts. If they don't…well, that's why I'm here." Harry decided a strong slap on Jimmy's shoulder was appropriate. It seemed like something Ron would've done. "Your family will be perfectly safe." It spoke to Jimmy's unwarranted respect for Harry that he accepted that idea as quickly as he did. The tension drained from his shoulders and he went back to beaming up at the looming stadium. Harry's gaze drifted past Jimmy's face, catching Lily's watching eyes and she gave him an approving look. He quickly looked away.

Harry had never been in a stadium this size before; it easily reached up into the sky past where the players would fly. The noise from the stands was tremendous and the building shuddered and groaned under their revelry like it was a living construction. The Potter's, by dint of James's eminent position in the government, had seats in an upper level spectator box they would share with other respectable British families who'd rather not mix with the common rabble of fans. Their isolation was both a boon and a curse to Harry's job. The number of possible attack angles were cut down drastically; but they were also cut off from the rest of the arena and the security that provided. James slowed down as they ascended the stairs to the top, letting Jimmy's eager pace race ahead.

"What do you think their plan is?" James didn't bother to clarify who he was asking about.

"I thought you were dismissive about the idea of an attack?" Harry replied.

"I'm still not convinced. But I'd rather be prepared just in case," James said, waving it off. "And, Merlin knows, those neo-supremacist clowns are certainly brainless enough to try something this outrageous."

Harry nodded in agreement.

"If what Riddle says is true and there's a sizable conspiracy orchestrating it, it's doomed to complication. They'll feel obligated by their resources and self-importance to make it as thorough as possible; which means some moving parts."

"And this is…good for us?" James asked quizzically.

"It makes it difficult in some ways: in manpower, certainly. But it also makes them predictable. If they have spent time planning the outcome than the volatility of quidditch will make them rely on its constant; the end," Harry said. "The game could end in two minutes or two days. So, they'll set up at the start of the game and spring it after the snitch is caught. I'd guess during the trophy ceremony, when security is distracted by rowdy fans and guarding the league commissioner."

James stroked his beard and looked at him appreciatively. "So, I don't have to worry till then. Should I bustle the family out right after then?"

"That could be a good idea; unless they're already waiting outside. It'd be easier to defend everyone from inside the box."

"What're you planning on then? And are you certain they would send wizards? They'd have better odds setting up some sort of trap."

"It's what I expect. Some sort of explosive or long-range attack would be smarter certainly, but it's probably too _mundane_ for them to consider. That's what this is all about in the first place after all," Harry scoffed. "They won't be expecting my presence; it'll throw a wrench in their plans. Then I'm pretty good at mucking up the plots of unsuspecting criminals."

"How would they expect to get away with it anyway? The public would be in an uproar at my assassination; not to mention the other families in the box," James asked.

"I suspect we'll figure that out as it unfolds. And I'd be wary about the other members of our box if I were you."

* * *

"Oh lovely, Potter's in our box. They really should let us inquire about the other ticket holders beforehand, I'll make sure to mention it to commissioner next year." A reedy voice drawled from behind them. James turned and stood in the same motion, Harry mirroring him.

"Abbot," James replied distastefully. "I didn't think you had the appetite for quidditch."

"Hardly," The rather poncy looking man replied, slightly raising his chin. "Barbaric sport. But I'm good friends with the league commissioner you know, and it is important to attend all the notable events of the year; lest they get taken over by the mundanes, of course." His mouth twisted in disgust as his two compatriots behind him nodded in solidarity. Harry's eyes snapped to him sharply. Abbott seemed to notice the intensity of Harry's gaze and ignored James's response as he sneered back.

"Good Merlin, who is this? Some cage fighter you pulled off the street?"

Harry smiled at him. The scars pulled taut against his face as his teeth bared savagely under thin lips. Finally, something familiar in this world. He knew his own fair share of snobbish pure bloods convinced they were superior to the rest of the world. In the end they died just like everyone else. Bloodily. Harry remained silent and met the man's disdainful gaze with his unblinking crimson eyes.

"Harry is—a family friend," James cut in. "Why don't you just go to your seats and end this pointless posturing."

The man shifted uncomfortably under Harry's heavy stare. "Just keep your little brute under control. He looks quite unstable; clearly one of those wounds damaged his mind."

"You'd better learn to mind your tongue. I'm sure Director Riddle would be interested in hearing what you have to say about his apprentice." James fired back. The men stared at Harry in shock and then in terror as they recognized the familiar red eyes.

The tension was broken when the third and final group joined their box: an older wizard, his thick beard traveling halfway down his chest, along with his wife and two daughters.

"Ah, James," He called out in a distinctly Russian accent. "I am glad to see we will enjoy the match together." Abbot and his two followers used the distraction to slink away to sit on the far side from the Potters. James met the old Russian with a firm handshake and a friendly smile. Harry slipped back into his seat, tuning out the greetings behind him. A few minutes later when James rejoined them Harry made sure to direct him to switch so that Harry was in the outside seat closest to the Russians.

"Magical supremacists in our box. I suspected so." Harry whispered to him. James shook his head.

"Abbot is a piece of work, no doubt about it. But an assassination is way outside his horizon. I think he considers spilling magical blood a crime against nature, even mine. He doesn't associate with the neo-supremacists either—Grindelwald killed almost an entire branch of his family in the purges. But we have clashed often; our animosity is well known," James clarified.

"A reasonable suspect then. Someone to take the blame."

"Two birds with one stone? I suppose it's plausible. But he's hardly the violent type," James said. All the same Harry kept his eye on them.

The match was breathtaking in its ferocity, both sides hurtling recklessly at each other, almost completely heedless of the danger. They yanked and swung their brooms around near collisions that would almost certainly prove fatal to a muggle. A season of competition, years of training, and a lifetime of ambitions had brought these players to where they were, as the fury of their desire and the roaring of the crowd pushed them to fly harder than they had ever done before. The Potters yelled in exuberance as a chaser dove through a bludger, ignoring the pain as it collided with their chest padding hard enough to crush bone, in order to grab the quaffle. They swung around their broom in dazed concentration as the bludger veered back in an attempt to remove their head from their shoulders. The crowd was cheering themselves hoarse and stamped their feet in support of the play. Harry's gaze was fixed firmly on Abbot's party.

Then at the near hour mark he saw Abbot reach into his robes and pull out a small decanter. As a quaffle was thrown through the rings to the adulation of the crowd, he took a surreptitious sip from the container. Strange. There was no reason to hide a drink of water, or other wizarding drinks like pumpkin juice. Could be alcoholic; it was believable that Abbot was the type to abhor revealing his vices to others and firewhiskey was hardly the drink of the refined. As if on cue, the two other men slipped similar vessels out from under their robes and took a swig. Both shivered in disgust. The timing hardly seemed coincidental. Why would anyone smuggle alcohol into a quidditch game but only start drinking an hour into the game? The league average for game time was around 45 minutes, due to improvement of seeking brooms. And the synchronized swigs? Confirmation. It looked like James was both right and wrong. They _were_ the threat in the box; but Abbot wasn't the type. He was possibly in more danger than James if the assassins could procure the ingredients for Polyjuice from him.

They were clearly the centerpiece of the plot, but it was doubtful they were the only component. Unfortunately, Harry didn't have enough information to predict the rest of their plan. Right now, they were confident; their disguises had seemingly gone unnoticed and they were likely content to follow the plan meticulously laid out for them. He needed to change that, to pull them out of their comfort zone, and force them to improvise and make the mistakes humans were prone to. They had the advantage as long as he was on the back foot and waiting for them to make a move.

He slipped his wand out of his pocket and began twirling it expertly between his fingers. The motion caught the eye of the Russian, who gave him a questioning look before turning back to the game. Eventually, Abbot noticed out of the corner of his eye and glanced at Harry. Capitalizing on his attention, Harry brought his free hand to his face and mimed a drinking motion and then winked at the imposter. All he got was a perplexed look before the man suddenly paled. He narrowed his eyes in consternation as Harry smiled and slowly shook his head in mock disapproval. Abbot turned back to his compatriots and Harry could see them muttering furiously at each other. The Abbot imposter would have to make a call; whether they could risk if Harry, and by extension Riddle, was truly aware of their deception and what they would have to do about it. He was not let down. Ten minutes later, a wizard wearing the navy-blue robes of the stadium security team slipped into the box. Harry turned in his seat and watched in interest as the man approached him.

"Excuse me sir, Director Riddle has been in contact with the stadium. He requests your presence via firecall promptly. He reports a situation has arisen that necessitates your involvement," The man droned at him. It was a bit of a disappointing attempt, really. Though, their ability to communicate to outside forces was noteworthy and confirmed their existence.

James looked at him with a raised eyebrow. "Interesting. Perhaps he was some news about—our situation."

When Harry made no effort to stand up the man placed his hand on Harry's shoulder. "Sir, I must insist you follow me at once."

"What're you doing Harry?" James asked, "This sounds important," He urged. The rest of the Potters and the Russian family were staring at him in discomfort as he resisted the guards prodding to stand. Harry let out a sigh.

"Lead me away then." He allowed the man to pull him to his feet and escort him from the box. As they approached the door Harry slid the glove off his left hand, revealing the gleaming black and copper of his hand. The guard didn't pay it any attention; Harry had already noticed the telltale glaze of the Imperius in his eyes. They left the box together and the guard slid the door shut with a quiet click. They were alone in the hallway, the noise of the crowd dulled to low roar. The clacking of the guard's shoes echoed sharply in the empty air as he moved up behind Harry to goad him forward with a hand. Harry noticed the man's wand was foolishly still in his robes.

A quick flick of his wrist produced his wand from up his sleeve. Harry turned and brought the wand up between the man's eyes in one smooth motion.

" _Imperio,_ " Harry intoned. His magic flowed into the man's consciousness like a raging river and swept away any traces of his previous master, his will easily overpowering the existing curse. The guard stiffened before sinking back into his previous relaxed, empty stare. He stood stationary in the hallway; no longer committed to removing Harry. He could have been leading Harry into an ambush, in which case it would be an excellent opportunity to surprise the other conspirators. But he was tied to Riddle. Not someone they would antagonize willingly. Most likely they were going to have the guard lead him on a merry journey of time wasting and miscommunication so that he was no longer in position to interfere. He turned to the guard, still waiting patiently under the effects of one of the Unforgiveables.

Harry waved his hand at the man and sent him away to fulfill his normally assigned stadium duties. The curse should wear off in a day or two and hopefully the man wouldn't suffer any side effects. Or remember what happened. The best course of action seemed to be to return see how fake-Abbot reacted. Harry hoped he panicked.

He slid the door back open, maybe a minute or two since his departure. The majority of the box didn't even notice. Jimmy did however and called out to Harry in a puzzled voice.

"Harry! What're you doing back already?"

Abbot and his fellows spun around and stared as Harry stood by the door, calmly observing the box's inhabitants. His wand dangled from his fingertips. Harry met Abbots gaze and stared intently into his widened eyes. 'Come on,' Harry cajoled in his head. 'Do it. Do _something_. I'm clearly a danger to your plan.' He felt a painful jab behind his eyes, like his brain had suddenly bounced forward in his skull, and started blinking furiously to clear the sudden discomfort. Abbot had stood abruptly from his seat. The sudden motion drew the attention of the rest of the box. His two compatriots rose to their feet beside him.

"Fuck you Potter," He snarled with genuine venom, but it seemed oddly rehearsed and stripped of gravitas. It was apparently a signal, as the smaller of his compatriots started fumbling in his robes before whipping out a small turquoise potion. He hurled it into the air and Abbot fired a glowing dart of a spell in its direction as it passed overhead the Russian family. Luckily, the delay of retrieving the bottle gave Harry plenty of time to respond. The glass container detonated in a fiery clap, vaporizing the potion and spilling a cloud of sedation gas that was immediately blown out of the box by Harry's ventus jinx. He was at their seats in a sprint before the assassins had even turned from the cloud.

The box was too small, and too full of noncombatants to fight an open battle. Harry had next to no cover and dodging would just lead to one of the families being hit in the crossfire. He hurtled over the seat and into their midst, his metallic hand cuffing the back of the potion thrower's head and pulling him forward. He lost his balance and Harry hammered the man's head into the guard rail with all his momentum. It rebounded with a grisly crunch and splattered the ground with blood. Harry's wand flashed overtop the bleeding man's head and a low powered bludgeoning spell caught his comrade standing stunned. It produced an audible snap as it connected with his chest. He flipped backwards over his seat and skidded along the floor, his body motionless.

Harry grabbed his first victim's robes by the neck and swung him up and around, shielding his own body from Abbot's curse. It hit the prone body with a piercing squeal and Harry smelled the odor of burning flesh waft past him. Another curse smacked into the body and a gout of blood sprayed out over the seats. Harry dropped it and fired a silent disarming spell at the retreating Abbot. The spell was one of Harry's favorites; one he trained for hours to hone its potential, perfecting it for close quarters combat. The movement was a simple flick, barely any warning without a verbal incantation, and Harry's powerful cast made it nearly instantaneous at this range. Abbot's wand flew out of his hand and he staggered backwards. A stunning spell smashed into him from the side, dropping him like a rock.

Harry turned to a standing James Potter, wand outstretched, and gave him a nod of acknowledgement. The man's face was closed off completely; cold, hard, _angry_. He had served his time in the British Unified Services out of the Hogwarts, Harry knew, a direct recruitment from the Defense Preparatory program. He would not hesitate from violence, especially with his family standing behind him.

The Russians stared at him in horror. The younger of the daughters, Harry guessed she was about seven, hugged her face into her mother to stifle a wail of terror. The older was about Hogwarts age, but Harry thought she looked so very young as she stared at the bloody body at his feet, her face deathly pale.

"They have more agents on the outside," Harry told James. "I believe they were ordered to keep us isolated until they could enter and finish what Abbot was supposed to start." Harry heard some furious Russian murmuring behind him that he ignored. James nodded. The Potter family seemed to be faring a little better than the others. Violet was back to looking at him like she did in their first meeting, Lily seemed dazed and a little upset. Jimmy looked queasy but had a determined glint in his eye and his wand out.

James was waving his wand over the now vacated seats of the assassins, setting up some sort of complex transfiguration—not Harry's cup of tea. The metal frames bent and buckled before separating completely from the floor. They crumpled into themselves, spitting the cushions onto the floor. Metal bars folded and smoothed in a complex dance until two gleaming metal lions stood in the box.

"Impressive," Harry muttered.

James shot him a crooked grin. "Transfiguration was always my specialty. I got some good use out of this one in the service."

The two impressive automatons prowled to the door, standing guard on either side. It wasn't a moment too soon as the door flew open and confident intruders, with wands in hand, filed in. Metal jaws, designed for killing blows on multi-ton animals, snapped shut on the leader's hand, crushing the bone into powder. The man's high-pitched scream was cut off as the other lion bowled into the doorway, forcing the intruders back with its sheer mass. The rampaging beast thrashed into the hallway, slashing widely with its razor-sharp claws, easily carving through robes and the soft flesh underneath. The corridor filled with shouts and screams of pain as it was showered with droplets of crimson. Two assailants had charged into the room before the lion attacked and were now left isolated.

Spells from multiple wands smashed into their hasty shields. The entirety of the Potters had reacted, firing their favorite curses in a steady stream. The conspirators shook under the magical assault, each curse impact generating a bright spray of sparks and their shields began to glow bright crimson with the residual magic diffusing across them. The unexpected violent counterattack prevented them from launching any sort of offensive. One started frantically waving his wand in furious patterns at the lion still chewing on the vanguard's arm. He had dropped to his knees and was pushing feebly against its head with a wandless hand, the other flopping limply in the beast's mouth as blood poured onto the ground. The lion was slowly losing its form, the vivid details of its musculature slowly blurring, but not nearly fast enough. A blasting curse blew a chunk out its mane but ricocheted off without doing any further damage. The Russian man stepped up next to James and cast his own bombardment hex at the pair that detonated against their shields with a fiery concussion wave.

Harry levitated one of the cushions off the ground with a flick of his wand. Another flick and it was a coil of thick metal chains speeding through the air towards the attackers. As a physical object they slipped through the magical shield unaffected and careened into one wizard's chest, knocking him to the floor and trapping him under their weight. The other man, having finally dealt with the lion by dissolving its head off its body, looked up in time to receive two stunners to his face. Harry silently animated the chains so that they wrapped around his partner tightly.

A spray of metal parts blasted into the room, announcing the end of the other lion. Three more assailants staggered into the box, robes torn and bloody, in shock over the violence they had run into. The defenders engaged them immediately. A hail of curses were flung towards the doorway, forcing the attackers to defend. Entering the chokepoint of the door there wasn't any cover or room to dodge and so they were forced to expend massive quantities of energy on maintaining magical shields to defend against the kill zone. James continued his transfigurations, animating the metal debris that covered the floor to spring up and hamper their approach as they morphed into birds and rats that picked away at their visible skin.

Harry waited for them to enter as they stumbled over the ranks of teeming metal mice trying to maintain their shields. As the last man cleared the entrance, he summoned the door with an excessive amount of force. It swung back against its joints, practically tearing itself from the wall trying to reach him. The wooden slab connected solidly with the head of one of the attackers dropping him to his knees. Harry's paralysis curse connected solidly, and his body stiffened and toppled. His sudden fall distracted one of the others, drawing his eyes from his shield. James's banisher picked him up bodily and blasted him into the wall hard enough to crack the wood veneer. The last assailant dropped his shield and immediately ducked under the responding spells. A deep orange curse rocketed from his wand towards the Potters, a German-variant laceration curse Harry recognized. He knew instantly it was going to slip right in between James and Lily, like he could already see it replaying in his mind.

" _Depulso_ ," he shouted. The charm flung him across the room in a sudden acceleration, vision blurring for a half second. He skidded to a halt, careening into Violet, with his hand wrapping around her back the only thing stopping her from being tossed to the ground. He flung his other hand out to the side, its glossy black surface reflecting the light of the curse streaking towards it. The curse splashed against his hand with an angry crackle, painfully jolting it back against his chest, and sparking wildly as the inlaid copper sigils lit up with eerie golden light. He grimaced as the feedback coursed through his body like a fiery poker brushing against his nerves. The hand grew uncomfortably hot against his skin as the magical energy was dispersed by the enchantments built into it. A flurry of curses tore into the last assassin and blew him off his feet.

"Harry! Are you okay?" A chorus of voices assaulted him at the same time, he wasn't sure who was the one he heard most distinctly.

"Yeah," He slowly unwrapped his arm from the girl, letting her drop into her seat. "I'm fine," he said with a tired sigh. That was an unacceptably close call. As he stumped over to James he vowed to get back to his training; he'd let the shock of this new world distract him and dull his edge.

James met him halfway with a relieved smile and proffered hand. Harry accepted the handshake and James gripped his shoulder with a tight hand.

"Thank you," he said simply, but Harry understood all the meaning behind it. He nodded in acceptance. As he released James's hand Lily slipped between them and wrapped her arms around his torso, pulling herself tight against him. Slowly, and awkwardly, when he realized she wasn't letting go, he gently placed his hands on her back. He met Jimmy's eye and the boy gave him a toothy grin. Suddenly his face dropped, and a look of total dismay flickered across it.

"Bugger all, Falmouth just got the snitch."


	7. Interlude 1

**Interlude 1**

Tom Riddle, Director of National Security for the great Unified People's Nation of Britain, fiddled with the lone piece of parchment that occupied his desk. Another missive from old Slughorn at Hogwarts filled with updates and questions about recruitment procedures for promising prospects. As each school year approached its start the potions master always worked himself into a mania about his auxiliary duties; flooding Riddle with proposals and inquiries as he furiously reviewed his initiatives. It was irritating in its frequency, but he couldn't fault the man his dedication. Especially not with the results he often produced. He looked up from the parchment at the man standing to attention in front of him, his second in most matters, and one of Slughorn's greatest finds.

Severus Snape stood quietly awaiting his superior's orders, arms held to his sides and his dark eyes fixed on Riddle.

"Only a trifle," Riddle stated, waving at the parchment. "I am free to meet our guest. Please see him in, Severus." The man nodded in response and strode from the room. What a wonderful discovery he had been. A 'true talent' was what Slughorn had called him in a report, brilliant in his preferred subjects—and then preliminary recruiting intelligence discovered a pitiful homelife where he languished under the care of a negligent and loathsome mundane. It was prime enlistment material for their department; he jumped at the opportunity they presented with hardly any need for standard recruitment procedures.

The door swung back open, reluctantly slow this time, as a man slid timidly into the office. His discomfort was glaringly obvious from his movement as he entered the room. His expensive robes looked markedly out of place next to Riddle's spartan decoration.

"Mr. Blythe. Please, take a seat," Riddle called out, not bothering to rise from his seat. Blythe puffed out his chest with fake confidence and fixed an unconvincing smile on his face. He pulled out the uncomfortable wooden chair and sat down hurriedly.

"May I enquire about the reason behind my summons today?" Riddle remained quiet and stared at the man. He could literally smell the fear pouring off the man, his brain recording dozens of micro expressions and body movements and translating them instantly into a magically derived form of synesthesia. As he continued to ignore the question the man's nervousness grew; his anxiety whittling away at his self-control.

Riddle forcefully fought his own body's impulses to move, to adjust position, to expand the chest with a breath. He had studied the effect in his subordinates' memories after years of development. It was a subtle, psychological effect as the brain subconsciously picked up on his inhuman lack of movement and started projecting warning flags. He caught the man's flickering eyes and ribbons of emotions tickled at the edges of his senses.

"I'm afraid you are in a little bit of trouble Mr. Blythe," Riddle said. "Can you guess why?" Their eyes were locked now, his question compelling Blythe to maintain the contact. He felt a squirming pang of terror slip out of the man's mind.

"Oh—ah, nothing comes to mind, Director." Blythe ventured.

"None of that title business now—call me Tom. All of my friends do," Riddle smiled coldly. "We're not that familiar yet, of course, but I think we should rectify that. If that's agreeable to you?"

Riddle's eyes flared as the man faltered slightly, thrown off balance. It was truly amusing that what men in Blythe's position always found the most terrifying wasn't when he made threats, not when he displayed his tremendous magical prowess or raged at them. Instead, it was when he forced a honeyed smile to crease his cold, unemotional face and offered words of cordiality. It was so _unexpected_ , so alien, they were thrown hopelessly off balance.

"Certainly, D— _Tom_ ," The man bit out, unable to hide the note of distaste in his voice. Oh, how Riddle enjoyed forcing them to say that name. It was the name of a commoner; the designation of a mundane. These supremacists held the same aversion to his name he had all those years ago, for all the same reasons. But he had risen above it, above them and their grand traditions, and established himself as their superior all the same. It was a reminder to them all that their names meant nothing, that he could take the most common title and make it more respected than their family could ever hope to be.

"Excellent. I've been rather distressed today; we've encountered some disturbing activity. That attack at the match last night, of course—dreadful scene that was. And then to find Rigby Abbot had been assaulted and imprisoned in his own home." Riddle shook his head in mock horror without breaking eye contact. He held his expression motionless with practiced ease as his mind brushed against more fear spiking from Blythe.

"Yes, yes that was terrible indeed. I was unaware of Abbot's trouble—very worrying. Two respectable wizards in one night. Am I considered to be in danger as well?" Blythe asked.

"Oh yes, Mr. Blythe, you are very much in danger."

The man's widened and his lips quivered with unspoken worry. "Then what is going to be done?"

"Hopefully, for both our sakes, this can be concluded quickly. If not, then I'll have to hand you off to my associates; rest assured they're very competent, but their methods are rather time-consuming," Riddle said.

"What are you talking about?" Blythe looked bewildered.

Riddle's legilimency wrapped around the man's head like a band, squeezing tight against his mind.

"I know of your patronage to the conspiracy behind the attacks. I've known for months Mr. Blythe. I was content to focus on other more pressing issues, but attacking an esteemed wizard in his own home? An assassination attempt on your own countrymen? You are threatening the integrity of my great nation; and I cannot let this stand."

"I—I've done no such thing," Blythe protested but the torrent of guilt Riddle detected pouring from his mind and body language spoke otherwise.

"There is no use playing ignorant, your mind is like an open book to me." His mental attack surgically prodded at every stray emotion that presented itself, the pressure remaining shy of debilitating but prevented the man from gathering his thoughts. The skill was esoteric enough that most people had no true understanding of its limitations; even with all his prodigious skill it wasn't feasible to pull out precise truths or memories from people. However, the pain it caused was usually enough to convince the target he could—and make them willing to reveal it on their own terms. Blythe gasped and his face scrunched in pain.

"This can be very simple. You and your conspirators have overstepped yourselves and have forced me to act before I was ready. If you can help fill me in on the gaps in my knowledge, then I can offer you some lenience in return for your help in this investigation."

Blythe whipped his wand from out of his robes. The hand finished its path separate from the wrist, bouncing of the floor with a dull thud. Blythe stared in shock at the cauterized stump on his arm and let out an ear-piercing shriek.

"That was a mistake. I'd just like some names now, that's not so hard." Blythe's screams tapered off into a blubbering cry.

"I don't know anything," he moaned. Riddle sighed. He could feel the man's mind coiling back onto itself defensively.

"We both know that's not true." Blythe didn't respond, instead he tried to leap towards the exit. Riddle waved a hand and he was slammed back into the chair.

"I can sense you are going to continue being stubborn about this. Severus," He called, raising his voice slightly. Snape walked back into the room, tailed by two men robed in all black. "See Mr. Blythe to his quarters."

Snape waved his hand and the men grabbed Blythe by his shoulders and pulled him from his seat. They marched him towards the door, hoisting him up as he tried to drag his feet on the floor.

"No, no! Please, I'm innocent." Riddle and Snape watched as Blythe was dragged from the room and the door slammed back shut. Snape broke the silence.

"I haven't taken the time to congratulate you on your work with the new Potter. I'll admit, I was doubtful, but it worked out just as well as you predicted," Snape said.

"Yes, he performed beautifully. I've gotten reports that he has grown quite comfortable with his counterpart family as well—I worried more about that than his competence."

"Even though he knows they are not truly related to him?"

"Even so. It is one thing to understand that rationally, but another to look upon the face of his dead mother and feel no emotion. It runs both ways as well; I suspect that the Potter's will prove themselves my unknowing allies in trying to tie him to this world."

Snape nodded uncertainly. "So, you are committed to this idea of his apprenticeship?"

Riddle nodded. "In his world he was the only man who could stand against me. In this one he is the only person who has no other loyalties. Can you imagine a better prospect to be groomed for the position?"

"I suppose," Snape acknowledged. "May I ask about the eyes? How on earth did you get him to agree to that?"

Riddle scoffed, "I did no such thing. He is under the misconception that they are an unavoidable side effect of the magic I used to fix his eyes and appearance. Presumably influenced by his acceptance of the apprenticeship."

Snape gave him an appraising look. "And now everyone will associate you two."

"Undoubtedly. My eyes are also the shared attribute he associates most with my other self. Every time he looks at them he is reminded of all the crimes my counterpart committed against him, and I start to lose whatever ground I've gained. Now that he shares them, he will slowly become inoculated to their appearance, until they lose the association. I need to establish myself as a separate figure, as an ally. They were an impediment."

"Your reasoning is sound," Snape offered.

Riddle gave him a crooked, wicked smile. "Thank you, my friend."


End file.
